Sick of Shadows Page 10

  They walked down from the station and climbed into a hansom carriage. “Is Phil doing well?” asked Harry.

  “Yes, he is very diligent. The house has never been so clean.”

  “How does he pass his leisure time?”

  “He reads. He enjoys books.”

  “I am thinking of starting a charity to help the poor of the East End. Perhaps we will get Phil involved. Instead of lords and ladies playing the part of bountiful benefactors, perhaps someone like Phil would be good at finding out the truly deserving. We have more than enough money now. Do I pay you enough, Becket?”

  “At the moment, yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Would it be possible to continue to work for you were I married?”

  “You, Becket?”

  “You must have noticed my fondness for Miss Levine.”

  “We will see. Lady Rose without Daisy would be completely unprotected.”

  “Perhaps the ideal solution would be for you to marry Lady Rose and protect her yourself,” said Becket boldly.

  “That’s enough, Becket. I will consider your problem, but for the moment I wish to hear no more about it.”

  St. Edwin’s was one of the lesser Oxford colleges, having been built on Gothic lines in the last century. They asked for Mr. Jeremy Tremaine at the porter’s lodge and were escorted across to a stair off the main quadrangle.

  “First-floor landing, sirs,” said the porter and left them.

  They mounted the shallow stone stairs and knocked at the door on the first landing.

  Harry had somehow hoped that the Tremaine family, driven by thwarted ambition, had murdered their own daughter. He had decided against the rector and his wife, however, which left the son.

  But the man who answered the door to them looked as if he could not hurt a fly. All the looks had gone to Dolly. Despite his youth, Jeremy was tall, thin and slightly stooped. He had a yellowish skin, like tallow, and wore spectacles on the end of his nose. He was dressed in a severe black suit and a white shirt with a high starched collar. His dusty fair hair was already thinning. Over his suit, he was huddled into a dog-hair rug.

  Harry introduced himself. “Come in,” said Jeremy. “Excuse my dress, but the lazy scout has only just made up the fire. May I offer you something? Sherry?”

  They both refused. Becket took a chair by the door and Harry sat down in an armchair facing the one into which Jeremy had just lowered his long thin form.

  “Is it about my sister’s murder?” asked Jeremy.

  “Yes, we still have no new clues. Have you any idea who could have done this?”

  “I have thought and thought.”

  “It must have been someone she knew,” said Harry. “She must have put on that fancy dress to show someone.”

  “Perhaps she wanted to show it to Lady Rose and was attacked by some madman in the park.”

  “An intellectual madman,” said Harry dryly, “to take the trouble to arrange her like the Lady of Shalott.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” said Jeremy eagerly. “What if the whole effect was an accident? What if the murderer, horrified at what he had done, simply, well, laid her out, as it were?”

  “Perhaps,” said Harry. “There was talk that Miss Tremaine was fond of a local blacksmith’s son, Roger Dallow.”

  Jeremy gave a scornful laugh. “Village gossip. I know where that came from. That old maid, Miss Friendly, always mooning about the place and dreaming of romance. Every boy and man for miles around was fascinated by Dolly, but she did not encourage any of them.”

  “Have you any idea what became of Roger?”

  “He ran away. I know that. His father is a brutal man, so nobody was surprised.”

  “And he never wrote to your sister or tried to communicate with her in any way? Becket, pray come nearer the fire. You must be frozen over there.”

  Jeremy gave a sour laugh. “As far as I know, Dallow was illiterate. He was keen to attend school, I’ll say that for him, but his father kept him working at the smithy.”

  Harry repressed a sigh. This whole journey had turned out to be a waste of time. He had learned that Jeremy had spent the summer in Greece and had waited eagerly for the Michaelmas term at Oxford to begin in the autumn. He could think of nothing more to ask him and he and Becket took their leave.

  As the train approached London, he looked down at the little houses with their neat suburban gardens and said to Becket, “I wonder what it would be like to live in one of those little houses, free from the pressures of society.”

  Becket followed his gaze and repressed a smile. “Those are the homes of the lower middle classes, sir. You would find snobbery and social rules are as rigid as they are in high society. Some people even imagine escaping to a cottage in the country. The vicar and his wife would call and so pigeonhole them into the correct social stratum. The news of the incomers would go round the village and they would only receive calls from people on their own social level and be subjected to all the petty tyrannies of snobbery. But cheer up, sir. The aristocratic male does have freedom. If he does not conform to the rules of society, he is regarded as eccentric. If he is very rich and marriageable, then he is regarded as Byronic.”

  “I did not know you were such a cynic, Becket.”

  “Merely an observer of the world.”

  There was a sudden huge bang and the carriage in which they were sitting tumbled over on one side.

  The shattered gas lamps plunged the carriage into darkness, but there was still the ominous hiss of gas.

  “Climb on my back, Becket, and open the door up there,” shouted Harry. “One spark and this place will be in flames. Where are you, man?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Right! Up on my back, fast!”

  Becket struggled until he got a firm hold on Harry’s coat and hauled himself up.

  He struggled and managed to jerk the window down by its leather strap, and leaned out.

  “Out you go!” shouted Harry.

  “But, sir. How will you get out?”

  “Get on with it, man.”

  Becket crawled down the side of the train. The air was full of wails, shrieks and cries.

  Harry gave a great leap and grasped hold of the edge of the window. With a superhuman effort he pulled himself out and slithered down to join Becket just as a great fireball exploded near the engine. Flames began to engulf the train.

  “To the end of the train,” panted Harry. “We may be able to pull some people out.”

  They ran down the train away from the fire. They struggled up to doors and got them open, dragging men, women and children out, shouting to them to run clear of the train.

  At last, the wooden carriages, combined with gaslight, went up one after the other in explosions of flame.

  Harry and Becket struggled clear and watched in horror as the flaming train lying on its side began to slide down the embankment. With a great crashing roar, it tumbled down onto the houses beneath.

  Harry sat down and buried his face in his hands. His leg, injured in the Boer War, was throbbing but he hardly felt the pain.

  And then the rain began to pour down, streaking their sooty faces with white lines, running down like tears.

  Still they sat there, master and servant, numb with shock.

  At last Harry struggled to his feet and helped Becket up. The air was full of the sound of the bells of fire engines. And then there was silence.

  They walked to where the head of the train had been. It had collided full on with the up train, and despite the rain, the up train was burning from end to end.

  Rose, dressed as Columbine, descended the stairs. “How pretty you look!” exclaimed Lady Polly.

  “Thank you. Where is Captain Cathcart?”

  “Nowhere, as usual,” snapped her mother. “We will need to go without him.”

  The earl and countess were attired in eighteenth-century dress.

  Rose’s heart sank. She knew she looked well in h
er costume and had been looking forward to seeing Harry admire it.

  She felt a ball of hurt somewhere in her stomach. He did not care for her, not even a little bit. He had snubbed her again. How the débutantes would titter and gossip behind their fans when she arrived alone.

  As they were about to leave, Peter called. “I wanted to show you my costume,” he said, swinging a black coat from his shoulders. Despite her hurt, Rose began to laugh. He was dressed as harlequin.

  “As my fiancé has not put in an appearance and we match, I would be honoured if you would escort me.”

  “Delighted and honoured,” said Peter.

  The earl and countess exchanged little smiles. Peter was eligible and very suitable. The captain was not. Surely Rose would break the engagement now.

  SIX

  For talk six times with the same single lady,

  And you may get the wedding dresses ready.

  —LORD BYRON

  A stonemason who had been rescued from a third-class carriage along with his wife and two children had demanded at the time to know the name of his rescuer. Harry had simply smiled and run off to try to rescue someone else. But Becket had shouted back, “Captain Harry Cathcart.”

  One of the stonemason’s sons had a broken arm. Reporters haunting the nearby hospitals began to hear of some hero who had gone from carriage to carriage rescuing people. They came upon the stonemason as he was leaving the hospital with his family, his son’s arm in a splint. He told them that the lives of himself and his family had been saved by a Captain Harry Cathcart.

  Daisy slipped out the following day for a walk. She was very troubled. Peter and Rose had won first prize for their costumes. Everyone was talking about what a handsome pair they made.

  She walked until she reached Piccadilly. Outside the new Ritz Hotel, a news-vendor was shouting, “Read all abaht it! Hero of train crash.”

  Daisy was about to walk on when she recognized Harry’s face on the front page. She fumbled in her reticule for her change purse and bought a copy and went into Green Park where she could read it in peace.

  The photograph of Harry had been taken a year before at a charity fund-raising garden party. Daisy read in growing horror about the train crash. Becket was referred to only as Harry’s manservant. He could have been killed, she thought, the newspaper trembling in her hands, oblivious to the black ink that was soiling her gloves.

  Various friends telephoned the earl to exclaim over Harry’s bravery. He told his wife.

  “Perhaps we will say nothing of this to Rose,” said Lady Polly. “It is better at the moment that she should think he did not care enough about her to attend last night.”

  At that moment, Rose entered the drawing-room carrying a letter and a little jeweller’s box.

  “I am returning Captain’s Cathcart’s ring,” she said. “I have written him a letter asking him to release me from the engagement.”

  “It’s all for the best,” said Lady Polly. “I’ll get John footman to take it straight to him. Matthew shall send an announcement to the newspapers straight away.”

  Harry had told Becket to take the day off. Phil, proud of his temporary position as butler, was answering the door and telling the press in strangulated tones of refinement that the captain was “not at home.”

  Phil was unrecognizable as the wreck that Harry had first brought home. His skin was clear and healthy and his figure erect. He loved his room and his books. He wished he’d been on that train with the guv’nor and maybe had a chance to rescue him.

  He answered the door again, prepared to send another reporter away, but it was the earl’s footman who stood there. He handed Phil the letter and the little jeweller’s box. “My Lady Rose requested me to give these to Captain Cathcart.”

  Phil took the letter and box in to where Harry was sitting at his desk in the parlour.

  “From Lady Rose,” said Phil.

  Harry looked bleakly at the letter and then at the jeweller’s box. “Thank you, Phil, that will be all.”

  “Right, guv.” Phil backed out of the room as if before royalty.

  Harry opened the jeweller’s box. The ring he had given Rose sparkled up at him.

  He broke open the seal on the letter. He read: “Dear Captain Cathcart, As you have once again shown your indifference to me by failing to escort me last night or even to send an apology, I am terminating our engagement. This will be best for both of us. Yours sincerely, Rose Summer.”

  “The hell with her,” said Harry out loud. “Now I need never be hurt again!”

  Daisy hurried upstairs, clutching the Evening News. She erupted into Rose’s sitting-room, crying, “You’ll never believe it!”

  “What is it, Daisy?” Rose was slumped in an armchair by the fire.

  “It’s about the captain. He’s a hero. Oh, if only they had got Becket’s name!”

  “Let me see that newspaper.”

  Daisy handed it over. Rose read the story of Harry’s bravery with increasing horror.

  She turned a white face up to Daisy. “I have just written to him sending his ring back and Matthew has sent a notice to the Times cancelling our engagement.”

  “Why?” shrieked Daisy.

  “Because he did not attend me last night. I thought he was snubbing me.”

  “Cancel the notice!”

  “I can’t,” said Rose dismally. “It’s done. It’s for the best.”

  “You fool,” said Daisy bitterly. “You bloody little fool.” She burst into tears and fled from the room.

  Rose was in more disgrace than she had been when her photograph had appeared once on the front page of the Daily Mail showing her attending a suffragette rally. She had jilted England’s latest hero. The announcement had appeared in the Times and the gossipy papers had recognized a story. All the facts of Dolly’s murder were dragged up again. A nasty bit of speculation began to run through society that someone as unstable as Lady Rose Summer might have killed Dolly herself in a fit of jealous rage.

  Daisy was angry with her, wondering if she would ever see Becket again. Three days after the announcement Daisy felt she could not bear it any longer and slipped out of the house and took a hansom to Chelsea.

  When Becket answered the door, Daisy burst into tears and fell into his arms.

  He drew her gently inside, saying, “Please don’t cry. We’ll think of something.”

  At last, Daisy, fortified with hot gin, gulped and said, “My lady is in such disgrace. Some people are beginning to think she might have murdered Dolly herself.”

  “But that is ridiculous!”

  “I know. But mud like that sticks. Invitations have been cancelled. Lady Polly is in fits. It’s all her fault for encouraging Rose to break off the engagement, but of course she puts the blame for everything all on Rose.”

  “It is a pity there is no other gentleman in Lady Rose’s life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because society would assume that she was so much in love with this other fellow that she had to ditch the captain.”

  “There’s only Sir Peter and we both know what he is.”

  “That might be gossip. We may be mistaken.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Then perhaps Sir Peter might agree to an arranged engagement. If he does prefer men and were ever caught out, he would go to prison.”

  “Do you think that might do the trick?”

  “It would certainly save my master’s face and would stop a lot of the gossip about her.”

  “I’ll suggest it.”

  “Then there is charity work. There are soup kitchens in the East End. If she were to work some hours in one of those and the press got to hear of it, she might be regarded as an angel of mercy.”

  “You are clever, Becket. I wish we could get married.”

  “We will,” said Becket. “I don’t know how, but I will do everything in my power to make that happen.”

  When Daisy returned, Rose listened to Becket’s suggestions. “I
t would mean I would have to propose to Peter,” she said.

  A footman entered. “Sir Peter Petrey has called, my lady.”

  “I will see him. Are my parents at home?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Then put him in the drawing-room. Come, Daisy.”

  As they walked down to the drawing-room, Daisy hissed, “You can’t propose to him with me there.”

  “We will take tea and then I will ask you to fetch my shawl.”

  Peter advanced to meet them. “I am so sorry, Lady Rose,” he said. “It is unfair that you should be in disgrace for refusing to continue in an engagement that had become distasteful to you. Surely everyone knows he neglected you shamefully.”

  “Everyone has conveniently forgotten that.”

  Rose rang the bell and ordered tea. Peter chatted away of this and that and then Rose said, “Please fetch my shawl, Daisy.”

  When Daisy had left the room, Rose said bluntly, “I have often thought of marrying just anyone in order to have a household of my own.”

  “You might find a husband tyrannical.”

  Rose took a deep breath. “Not if it were someone like you.”

  Peter carefully replaced a half-eaten crumpet on his plate. “Lady Rose, are you proposing to me?”

  “I suppose I am. I shall be very rich on my majority. I would not interfere with you if you would not interfere with me.”

  “Meaning a marriage in name only?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why this sudden desire to marry me and not someone else?”

  “I do not like anyone else. If I were to announce an engagement to you, people would assume that was the reason I jilted the captain.”

  “All very Byzantine. Yes, I don’t see why not. We are friends. Ah, I hear your parents returning. I shall ask you father’s permission.”

  Lady Polly was in a high good humour. Ever since Rose’s disgrace, she had been diligently making calls, reminding society how Cathcart had snubbed her poor Rose, how he had never been at her side; how, having sunk to trade, the captain spent all his time working like a common labourer. Her last call had shown her that the gossip had taken. “Poor Lady Rose,” fickle society was now saying. “Of course she could not go on.”